Needs More Pargon
by The Magic Pocket Turtle
Summary: A 50 themes short-story collection, featuring several of the main and side characters. Current- #15 Immortal- This wasn't what she wished for.
1. Cursed

**Author's Note: **In response to the pitifully small number of fanfics within the Eternal Darkness category, I am pleased to announce my personal contribution: a 50 theme challenge. For those of you who know what that is, fantastic, you know the drill. For those of you who don't, these are 50 short stories responding to a category in a list I found at **h t t p : / / a l a y a r a y e . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / j o u r n a l / 2 8 5 9 8 4 5 8 / (sans spaces, of course.) **Alexa Bleach will be doing the same project, but with a different list. So go read hers too.

I'm kinda 'meh' about this one.

* * *

They defied gravity. They floated above their pedestals, and Pious felt his heart leap in his chest. Not once had he questioned, not once had he thought to defy his master, no matter what vivid fantasy he thought to believe. His lord had been right- he had been right, in all but one fact.

There were several artifacts- not just one. What would his lord think, in receiving his prize threefold? The centurion stepped to the center of the pedestals, and regarded the object before him. Blue, with claws dripping from it- and yet it hovered above its resting place. If Pious had been an artistic man, he would have admired the intricate patterns atop the figure. If he had been a scientific man, he would have marveled at its ability to defy gravity. Pious had already pledged his eyes and mind to his lord- it was not his place to marvel or to wonder. If it were, perhaps he would not have so eagerly gripped the Artifact.

The moment he did so he felt a searing pain through his arms and chest. He released it instinctively, but this did not stop the Artifact from latching itself to him, no, _burrowing inside of him_. In his agony he fell to the stone floor, writhing and gasping.

The change happened swiftly. The skin peeled from his body, leaving the red, pulsing muscle exposed to the stuffy, ancient air. But his great muscles soon began to shrivel away, becoming less and less the great muscles of a trained soldier, and more the lean muscles of the starved. They began to turn the sickly, moldy blacks and browns of the rotting dead. Perhaps, in fact, Pious did die. He could have sworn he felt something light inside of him give way and vanish.

His armor hung loosely upon him as he struggled to pull himself to his feet, and he cried out in pain as he realized that those, too, were was not long, however, until he shoved that to the back of his mind- he never focused on his pain for long. That was how you died on the battlefield.

It was not long until he met his new master, Ulyaoth. Pious offered no argument- his master offered no release. "Through your own suffering, you set an example. Through your own suffering, you serve to empower me, Augustus." Always the good soldier, Pious offered no argument.

Every step the centurion took was pain, every motion, torture, but two thousand years makes one grow accustomed to the feel. His disguises were only that- the skin he wore to placate his former race served no protection against the elements. It was all little more than hallucinations and trickery that he tossed before their minds.

Sometimes, he'd catch a glimpse of himself in the water or, in later years, a mirror. It was when he saw himself, the molded muscles drawn taught about his face, the hollow eyes and the singed remnant of the armor he could never bring himself to replace, he truly felt himself **cursed**.


	2. Fog or Mist

**Author's Note:** I kinda like this one. I wan't entirely sure how to end it, but the rest of it I like.

* * *

When in doubt, Lindsey would turn to the spells in the morbid book he had found. Shrugging, he muttered to himself, his voice shrouded by the bored, elegant voice of Xel'lotath. "Nethlek, Redgormor, Xel'lotath." As the green-tinged **fog **began to gather in his eyes, he growled his frustration. Stuffing the book back into his bag, he reinforced his belief that this spell did _nothing_. Absolutely _nothing_. Still agitated over his spent magickal energies, and without bothering to dispel his sight, Lindsey stalked out of the empty room and back into the booby-trapped hallways.

Still frustrated and completely, hopelessly lost as to what he should be doing next, Lindsey didn't realize he had tripped a trap until he felt the floor sink beneath him and heard the hissing. He adopted a ready stance, allowing his green-hued eyes to scan the room for the oncoming danger, ready to respond, every muscle tense with anticipation.

Nothing.

Shrugging, and giving a little cough of embarrassment, Lindsey relaxed himself, and turned his focus to identifying the dangerous stones in his path. The truth was, most traps in these ancient temples had long since rotted and fallen to disrepair- he had never seen one with its weaponry so well preserved. But, he chided himself, even the best temples could not preserve every single trap in its walls.

_But what about the torches?_ The voice in the back of his mind whispered. Lindsey cleared his throat. While he had been surprised to see them burning- Hadn't the temple been lost for centuries?- he could easily attribute them to natives. It wouldn't be the first time they had lied to him about the location or existence of one site or another. Lindsey coughed again and wondered exactly how much dust was in here.

Pausing for a moment to inspect a groove that housed a swinging blade, he noticed that the green in his eyes had at last faded away. Following the groove to the floor, he noticed the fine green **mist **floating just above the stones, rising in such a slow manner as to not even be noticed above a certain height.

Poison. Fuck.

Lindsey bolted, as his struggling, infected lungs began hacking violently, trying to expel the toxins in the only way they knew how. His eyes now bleary as they watered, he began setting off traps left and right- He nearly lost a hand to a pair of crushing walls- his head to a swinging blade. One blade sliced the tip of his shoulder when he didn't stop quite short enough, and although his precious lifeblood came forth in a geyser and the pain nearly drove his crumbling, terror filled mind past the breaking point, he couldn't help but marvel, in an archeologist's way, that the blade was still dangerously, impressively sharp.

Finally, he stumbled out of the hall and into a room, where he leaned himself against a wall, breathing heavily and still coughing dangerously. Fumbling with his bag, he pulled the book out and flopped it open, searching desperately for a spell he knew worked.

"Narokath, Santak, Chattur'gha."

He felt energy and health flow back to him and gasped deeply in relief. The poison fled his system and his shoulder mended itself, leaving only the blood on his sleeve to prove that it had ever been injured. He repeated the process twice more before he trusted himself to stand.

He slipped the book back into storage, and turned on his heel to inspect the room. A stone soldier stood watch over a four armed Goddess, who clutched a golden bracelet in her hands. After trying fruitlessly to remove it from her grasp, he went back to studying the chamber, being not yet ready to brave the trapped halls again, and his earlier observations had shown the chambers to be fairly safe, once you exterminated the zombies. He circled the room, stopping only for the sudden wave of panic felt as the floor began to sink beneath him. Spinning in horror, he found the soldier to be turning toward him. _And the Goddess's arm lifting from the bracelet_. Warily, Lindsey stepped off of the pressure plate, and watched the soldier turn back to the Goddess, who closed her grip upon the bracelet once more.

Later, with the bracelet nestled happily in his pocket, Lindsey found an odd sort of comfort in the simple, scientific, and decidedly non-magickal layout of the temple. At least, that's what he told himself every time he saw a torch flickering in the sealed halls.

* * *

**Author's Note: **For those who couldn't guess, the spells above are 1) Reveal Invisible and 2) Recover.


	3. Sweet

**Author's Note:** I was going to add Paul in here, but he didn't quite fit the pacing.

* * *

There was no food in the dimension he had come from. There was sustenance, perhaps, that tasteless, formless, ethereal substance that nourished them, whether they wanted it or not. The Ancients accepted this, although they preferred the taste of sorrow and suffering that sometimes seeped from the Other Side of the Veil. It was like a narcotic for them. In their separate cells, their centers of containment, they still managed to squabble over it, although it was Ulyaoth, who had mastered the planes and magick who gained an avatar and began to take the lion's share of the ambrosia that leaked from a secure connection to Reality, which was slowly becoming less and less real.

Being the greatest servant of Ulyaoth, he too had tasted the essence of suffering, but found it, while perhaps more tasteful than the generic nourishment provided them, only slightly more so. No, it was his summons to the Other Side that at last provided him with the **sweet**, intoxicating substance that satisfied him, all while increasing his cravings.

Flesh.

Bone.

Nirvana.

At times he'd resent that so many people died beyond the grasp of his temporary "master", where their corpses were wasted. He had shook with rage to learn that the good, delicious meat was often interred, if they were not burned on the pyre. Blasphemy!

He would guard the artifact, as Ulyaoth had commanded, and obey this Liche, as his Lord willed, but he would no longer do so for nothing. No, the day they had sacrificed the first of those stupid, gullible monks to him he had found his price, his addiction. It had been meant as a peace offering, a gesture of "goodwill". Done once, and then forgotten. It would not be so. While the Ancients might have found it to be a repulsive manner in which to nourish himself, the Black Guardian decided that his was the only True sustenance, and dreamt of the day when his Lord came and made this world his. On that day, he would know not only the sweetness of flesh, but the thrill of the hunt.


	4. Tomorrow

**Author's Note: **The only problem with all this speed writing is that I feel I'm producing less quality.

* * *

He had not been imprisoned with the others. Instead, when they had discovered who he was, and what he did, he had been taken aside, taken, in fact, to their leader. "This one," the man had said, forcing Bianchi to his knees before the man, who leaned over a table, facing away from them, "is an architect. I thought, perhaps, with his expertise-"

"If he is, indeed, an expert." the man straightened and turned to inspect his soldier's capture.

Bianchi gulped and opened his mouth hesitatingly. "I am, sire, an expert. I have designed many buildings and temples, and even seen some to completion." Bianchi knew this last was a lie, and as soon as it fled his mouth he knew the masked man knew it too. His kind almost never lived to see their work completed.

Nonetheless, the man nodded and quickly grabbed a blank paper from the table he was standing by. He gestured at his soldier, who placed a broad, flat stone before Bianchi and cut loose his hands, which until that moment had been twisted painfully behind his back. The masked man then swept the paper, along with a quill and ink onto the stone with a single command. "Draw."

Bianchi stared blankly, and the man began to elaborate. "Design for me a monument, one celebrating my... greatness."

Bianchi, his heart beating heavily against his chest, carefully took the quill, and, after only a moment's consideration, began to sketch out something resembling an obelisk, noting measurements as he went. He had spent some time in Egypt during his Sabbatical, before he had been captured by these... people. He had heard nothing of a war or crusade- he would have avoided the area entirely if he had. Bianchi didn't take unnecessary risks.

When he began sketching designs along the side of the paper, his captor stopped him. "That is enough- I already know what designs I want."

Bianchi offered him the quill, but Pious set it aside. "Well then, architect." the man steepled his hands before his face. "I have one more task for you. My men have uncovered a city beneath these desert sands. It is here I wish to build my monument. You will scout it for me, and determine the stability of the structure. Know that should you lie or fail me, you will be killed. But, should you serve me well, I shall consider releasing you." He then gestured for his soldier to take Bianchi away, and began studying the plans for his new monument.

Relief washed through Bianchi. It was more than he could have hoped for, more than he could have prayed for. His luck, it seemed, had not forsaken him entirely. This was a task he could do in any condition short of blind. When he had done this man's bidding, he would return to Italy. He would return home.

He only needed to survive **tomorrow**.


	5. First Kiss

**Author's Note:** ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?!?!?! I think I spent more mental energy writing this than the others combined.... APPRECIATE IT.

And for those of you who AREN'T Alexa Bleach... sorry about that. (Go read her fifty theme if you haven't yet. Go.) Fun fact- this will probably be the only one without a title drop.

* * *

She had done it to make Liam jealous. Logically, Paul knew that. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that there was too much fire, to much passion, for it to be only a petty kiss, a kiss that only said "See? I can get any man I want." It didn't matter that she had done it in the middle of the street, right in front of the baker's shop, where everyone- everyone- knew that she was only antagonizing the furious blond boy.

But Paul wouldn't believe that. While his astute mind told him over and over "It meant nothing. You mean nothing to her." Hope, that lying whore, kept whispering "Perhaps..."

He began leaving her tokens by her window. Pebbles in curious shapes, small cakes he had baked, a hair clasp he had fasted two weeks to pay for. She became his obsession, his light, his reason to rise in the morning and lie awake at night. When he saw the clasp in her hair he slipped away from his work cobbling and wept for joy.

In January he discovered her favorite color was the green of the fields, because then her sheep ate well.

In February she shivered, and he taught himself to knit, so that one day she found a floppy, loose green scarf by her window.

In March he spent an entire week hunting the fields for the first flower of spring, so she could have it.

In April she mentioned the pains in her neck she had from having to look up all the time, and he began to stoop just a tiny bit.

In May he made her a pair of blue shoes, so he could watch her feet as she danced around the May Pole.

In June she lost one of her sheep, and he received a beating from his father for spending the whole day looking for it.

In July he made her a pair of comfortable sandals, because she had lost one of hers in the forest.

In August she fell sick, and he offered to watch her sheep, even if it meant no sleep for a week.

In September he tried to write a poem to the leaves, but all he could think of was her hair.

In October she asked him if he feared demons, and he swore that there wasn't a demon in this, or any world that could stand up to him.

In November he asked if their kiss had meant anything, anything at all, and she giggled.

In December she found a pair of fur rimmed boots outside her window, and she never again complained of frozen toes.

In January he smiled as she married Liam, and the day after that Paul shaved his head and traded his smock for a monk's robe.


	6. Impulse

**Author's Note: **I feel like there isn't nearly enough Michael fanfiction. (There isn't nearly enough fanfiction PERIOD, but that's another rant) Considering he had the most cryptic last scene, this site should be crawling with Fansplinations. I saw **one**. SHAME.

* * *

He wanted to touch it.

He wanted to burn it.

Hold it.

Crush it.

Clutch it.

Destroy it.

END it.

Michael Edwards did none of these things. He glared distastefully at the Essence of Chattur'gha as he slipped the glass dome over it and quickly tossed a blanket over the whole thing, shrouding it from sight. Mentally, he ran the location of all the things in his house that could be used as a weapon- knives, of course, were in the kitchen. His fire axe was in the closet of the living room. There was a sledgehammer at the far end of the hall, and the sword he had scoured five Renaissance Fairs to buy was stashed in his bedroom. As always, his gun was holstered at his hip.

The last time he had unveiled the Essence, they had found him. He awoke in the night to a rustling sound, and the instant he opened his door he found himself face-to-face with an Ulyaoth Horror (_If forced to choose a point, he'd say his sanity crumbled there_). He was ashamed to admit he'd screamed, and it had taken him what seemed, then, an eternity to backtrack to the kitchen and find a thick chopping knife. He nearly died bringing the beast down with _that (snapped at the hilt, the eyeless abomination kept fighting)_.

The book was long gone- vanished, to who knew where, and he found himself unable to remember the runes that summoned the recovery spell. A neighbor had phoned the police, so now the hospital had a shaky, incoherent lie about a very, very big dog on his medical records.

He placed the bundle in a cardboard box, on top of a glowing, enchanted sword. He would have kept that, for his own sake, but all attempts to use it resulted in terrible, lancing pain that crippled his hand for hours on end.

He remembered when he had first received the Essence- a man he now knew as Roberto Bianchi (_buried alive, the poor bastard_) had come from the Pillar of Flesh, hands folded like a sage and eyes cast down. "Take this... to the ruins of Ehn'gha."

Then, he had been repulsed by the artifact (_shaped like a devil's head_), and refused to touch it. Now it was all he could do to control the **impulse**.


	7. Addiction

**Author's Note: **I really like writing Lindsey. I think I do better on his pieces than the others.

* * *

He was famous in his field (_Wasn't everyone?_), and there were times when he had to stop and wonder why. True, he seemed to go specifically to areas where the natives (_They could be civilized as Europe or China, but they were always natives to Lindsey_) were at war, or in revolution, or when a sickness broke out, or any number of tragedies that would make any sane man (_You weren't sane even before then, were you?_) turn aside and choose an area that would allow them to keep their blood where it belonged. "A distinct aversion to good health." as one of his peers put it. It was a simple reason for renown, if not the preferred one.

But there was something to the taste of terror, something to knowing that at any moment, the tables could shift and you could be pitched from the peace of observation to the frenzy of combat. There was something in the taste that intoxicated the archeologist, that drove him to seek out the pariah digging sites, to travel in dangerous lands and risk his neck in thankless, often fruitless pursuits. It was the purest form of high, sweeter than any hazy inhalation of smoke or needle-prick drug, and trust me, he had tried them.

When he emerged from Mantorok's Tomb, his first, gasping thought of relief, even as he clutched the cloth-bundled for of Mantorok's heart, was "This must be what it feels like to overdose."

And it seemed, for a while, that he had quit. He felt no urge, no craving for high falutin adventure. He took up the pen and immersed himself in a book built on the all too clear memories of his last great journey. And, upon delivering the still-beating (_he had never even questioned how- some scientist he turned out to be_) heart to Rhode Island, he thought, at last, he could rest.

In three weeks he found himself laden with the gear he'd need to survive, glaring into sand swept desert, daring it to rise and challenge him.

And a whispering voice, too much like the voice of the Rotting God, hissed in the back of his brain _You will never outrun your __**addiction**__._


	8. Death

**Author's Note:** I'm so mean to Paul. Why so mean?

* * *

Paul severed the necks of the bonetheives and thought, _I could sink hell with the weight of the sins I have committed this day._

The creatures fell with a mewling shriek, reaching out their arms before stretching themselves on the ground. Paul didn't allow himself to end them- they would soon vanish, without the assuring beating he could bestow upon them, the one that comforted his mind and told him they would not rise again.

Instead, the friar turned to the bloody alter, and stared dumbly at the torn body of his last- his only- ally. Numbly, he folded the custodian's (_I never learned his name_) hands over his chest, straightened out his body, and bowed his head for the tears that were rising from despair.

_You killed him._ a voice whispered.

"I know." the most broken, tear-stained voice replied.

_"May your faith protect you, Brother Luther, for that's all you have left."_

The custodian's parting words rang in his ears until they fell in time with the scream he'd heard when he dragged the knife along the sarcophagus. His faith in God, it seemed, had done nothing but damn him further, and the only faith he could now truly claim as his own was in the **death **that dogged his heels.


	9. Skinny

"Now this, Alex, is called a flintlock pistol. Our ancestor, Maximillian Roivas used these to-" Edward paused and scrambled for a good lie "-shoot squirrels."

He would have continued, but was interrupted by the horrified shreik of his granddaughter. "He killed _squirrels_?!"

"Er, most likely. Now, don't get upset. Look," Edward loaded the pistol and aimed out the open window, "You trust your grandpa's aim, right?"

Alex nodded. In the summer, her grandfather liked to practice shooting at targets- one of her favorite passtimes was picking things out for him and setting up targets. He never missed.

Edward pointed out the window to a tree that grew maybe ten paces from the building. "I'm going to shoot that branch there, okay?"

The shot forced Edward's hand back unexpectedly, slamming his wrist back in a manner it wasn't ment to go. Tucking the pistol under his arm he shook out his wrist, hissing, as Alex loudly proclaimed "You missed! Grandpa, you missed!"

"Yes, well, Alex, the point I was making is that these guns were very inaccurate. He probably didn't hit many squirrels." Edward set the pistol back in the gun cabinet and began to close it when Alex, in her ever-inquisitive ten-year old mindset, asked "What kind of gun is that?"

It was almost as tall as she was. "That is an elephant gun."

"Is it accurate?"

"More or less."

"Show me!"

"Well, Alex, I think-"

Edward knew before he turned around exactly what was waiting for him. The sniff was a dead giveaway- he wasn't a psychiatrist for nothing. Behind him was the honed, skilled deployment of one of the greatest weapons imaginable, developed, mastered, and inherited over generations.

The puppy eyes.

He snuck a glance over his shoulder. It was all there- the eyes, the lip, the flushed look of crocadile tears that were prepared and ready for battle. Sighing, he grudgingly withdrew the gun from its position, and rolled his eyes as his granddaughter's best weapon vanished and she exitedly began scanning the yard for a decent target, ignoring her grandfather as he methodically loaded the gun and explained about the size and use of such a large firearm.

Once upon a time, when he was younger, the Elephant gun would knock him on his ass with every shot fired. Admittedly, he wasn't in the best of shape then, seeing as he spent a great deal of time with his books. But now he was (much) older, (hopefully) wiser, (slightly) fitter (maybe), and he knew what to expect from such a powerful gun now.

Alex pointed at a statue accross the yard, and Edward braced himself. Squaring his shoulders, he adopted a fighting stance, lifting the gun up and expertly aiming it, he drew in a deep breath-

And was immediately blown across the room. He smacked into the bureau, which shuddered and dropped a telephone on his head. Dazed, he heard Alex laughing histerically, and shouting "You hit it! You blew it's whole head off! Wow, do it again!"

Getting haltingly to his feet (_he really was much older than he remembered)_, he made a mental note to gain some weight- it was far too dangerous to be so damn **skinny**.


	10. Fuck

**Author's Note:** Another one with no title drop.

* * *

There was a time when he was a God of Fertility.

From Life came Death, and from Death came Life- the rotting corpses of the generation before provided nutrients to the ones that followed, and it was from this knowledge that he bacame the God of the Feilds. Mantorok understood the intricacies of Life and Death, Order and Chaos, and found fascination in this world where all four were held together so closely it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. It was this fascination and this knowledge that made him an ideal God for the people of Cambodia- after all, there is no use to be had from Gods who are both bored and foolish.

It was amusing, when their prayers began to shift. "Fertility God" they called him, and at first they meant the fields and harvest. He could still remember the first of the new prayers-

"Oh great, and Mighty God, grant me children. Grant me many strong sons, and many lovely daughters. Grant me a womb never wanting for young ones."

Had he known to laugh, he would have. Instead, he sat there, bewildered, until he came to the realization that he did not know where babies came from. He had seen them, yes, but he had never thought to inquire of their origin. He never thought to inquire much of anything. It did not look well for a god to go about asking things. But the Ancient of Order and Chaos was vast, and insidiously clever- cloaking himself, he stretched forth a single eye accross the land, and searched for an answer.

Three days later found the temple closed due to, what the shamans called "A deep need for privacy" from the problems of mortals.


	11. Love

**Author's Note: **Short shortness is short!

* * *

As a man, he had travelled long and far for her. Had battled first bandits and warriors, then monsters and corpses. As a man, he had dreamt of her arms and wished for her barest smile. Not a night passed that he did not reflect upon the poetry of her hair, the ballad of her legs, the lyrics of her lips. As a man, he had longed for her with every strand of his being.

As a ghost, he held her in her arms. He breathed and smelled only the stale air of the long-buried temple. As a ghost, he could not be with her in the basest form, but found himself instead hoping for touches he could not truly feel and kisses he could never taste. They lay together in a mockery of sleep, to pass the time between challengers and potential Chosen Ones. Never did they venture beyond the chamber that housed the Essance of Chattur'gha. Unable to sleep, unable to leave, it gave him too much time to think.

At times, when they feigned sleep, and he held her in arms that she never felt the strength of, he wondered if what drove him to her hadn't been lust in the skins of **love**.


	12. Distraction

She didn't remember this being here when she was little. Although it had been a year or two since she'd visited, now living across the country, she was certain that she still knew every inch of the mansion (_Except, she supposed, for the blockaded servants' quarters. Or the hidden room behind the library. Or the city beneath the well. This isn't the home you grew up in anymore_.) But she didn't remember this Roman bust. And she was damn sure that if it was there before, it didn't follow her like some drunk hobo on the street.

She sidestepped to the left, and the head followed, staring hollowly through its marble eyes. She skidded to the right, and back again, and to the right once more. With each movement, the bust tracked her.

"Are you alive?" she asked, feeling foolish but not doubting the possibility. Not after the night she was having.

The bust didn't respond though, and Alex wasn't sure if this made her feel better or worse. She stepped to the left again, feeling her arm hairs making a desperate bid for freedom. She knew there were other things, more important matters to attend to (_The end of the world, perhaps?_) but she couldn't ignore such an unnerving **distraction**.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I was so suspicious of that statue. The entire game I was waiting for it to hide something, or bite me.


	13. Mother

She had been born into slavery.

Actually, she might have been sold. She was never sure.

But who buys a toddling whelp for a slave? Useless for all but mewling and crying and lying on the floor. She had been hit only once- just once- but that was all it took for her to stifle her tears. Her master, the wealthy lord, had gotten rid of the strict slave master.

And her lord _was _wealthy- fabulously so. Wealthy enough to own slaves to dance for him. Only dance, and serve fruit, and wine, and kind enough to raise them from mewling toddlers to graceful, elegant shakers and gliders. Even when she wandered about the jungle, she was never as free as on the stones where she danced.

She would sometimes fantasize about him. She knew she was his favorite. Sometimes, he would take the other girls to his chambers, and she, being not entirely stupid, had an idea of what happened there, and secretly dreamed of the day he would extend his offer to her. Sometimes, she would lie awake and wonder, pondering the things he had said to her. He would joke, and tease, and she would flirt, and wink, and flaunt everything she had. _Notice me, notice __**me**_.

It wasn't her place to ask why she was never taken to his room. Often, though, she would dance alone for him- No music, no other dancers, no greater audience than him. And once, although it could have been a hiss of the wind or the great god of the temple, she thought she heard him sigh. "... so much like her **mother**."


	14. Abandonment

What happens to a god when he is ceased to be worshipped?

What happen to his temples, his monuments, those marvels of architecture erected in honor of his glory?

They were questions Mantorok never considered, never thought to answer. While most gods remained aloof from their worshippers, he had always been there, in his temple, in plain veiw of his priests and shamans. When faced with such reality, even the corpse god could not be forgotten so quickly. He had been foolish not to consider that he would be forced into obscurity.

When Pious first drove his shamans from the temple, the God of Fertility still held to his hope that they would return- he did not expect them to free him, no. They were not so powerful. But he expected them to return. Return, and perhaps take the shell of a vessel he had placed his heart into. Bury her body, hide it away. Instead, she became his one companion, the only witness as the God of Fertility shriveled into the God of Corpses in his **abandoned** temple.


	15. Immortal

Humans were not made to last eternally. Soft meat and brittle bones, they were not made to even last a century. Gods were made to last. Airy ghosts and empty wishes, they were made to last as long as they were worshipped, and those born before the worshippers came were made to last longer.

Ellia was a human soul trapped in a long-expired body. For a hundred years she watched herself waste away, kept alive only by the beating of an alien heart, belonging to the god of her people. She watched her willowy arms and skilled dancer's legs shrink against her bone, turning brown and wrinkled as it went. She was only thankful that there were no mirrors or reflective surfaces in Mantorok's Tomb- she didn't think she could stand to watch her beautiful face, envy of all the king's slaves turn aged and rotten before her eyes. She could feel time burrowing into her bones, like termites into wood, hollowing her out, making her a home as she waited, undying, with the Corpse God.

_Isn't this what you wanted?_ the Corpse God whispered. _Isn't this what all mortals want? An eternity to live?_

"It is not what I wanted." she replied bitterly.

_But it is._ Mantorok persisted._ I heard you on the day you came. 'I wish something like these stories would happen to me.'_ Ellia winced at the sound of her own voice echoing from Mantorok's mouths. _I heard you, and I answered your prayer._

"It was not a prayer! It was a wish- a stupid wish."

_Wishes and prayers, prayers and wishes. They are one and the same. You wished for a story. You prayed for adventure. And it was granted you. Some would call that lucky._

"There is no such thing as luck." Ellia said coldly. "You said so yourself."

_Did I? _Mantorok's whispering voices sounded perplexed. _I forget sometimes, what I have said and haven't._

The two grew quiet. Ellia stared at the stone walls. She had memorized them long ago. She knew every crack and pore, where they were strong, where they were not. Some days she spent pacing the walls, dragging her fingers lightly across them, stepping carefully so as not to place a foot in one of her companion's eyes.

_Perhaps, then, I did draw you here._ the Corpse God admitted. _But will you deny your own desires? Your own part in this little play? When you enter a story, you can't always expect to be the hero. _

Ellia wished her eyes would water. She wanted to cry, but there had been no dampness in her for generations. She'd stupidly wasted her tears early on, when she realized there was no escape from this tomb and its rotting god. She wished she had them now, to mourn her stupidity, to at least break up the boredom.

_Eternal darkness, eternal loneliness, eternal boredom. _Mantorok said quietly. _It is the very definition of an __**immortal**__._


End file.
